


Past, Present, Future

by lamardeuse



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-27
Updated: 2010-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-09 04:58:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of his graduation from the Academy, Blair thinks back to other homes he's known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past, Present, Future

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kungfunurse and the 2006 Moonridge auction.

I

  
Naomi's hand is comforting in Blair's hair as she speaks, her voice melodious and dripping with regret, and Blair knows she's not coming. But then he'd known for a while.

“You'll have many graduations, sweetie. The Maharishi – well, he anticipates ascension to the astral plane soon, and – ”

To be honest, Blair stops listening at that point, because he's heard it before. His mother has never been much for traditional observances. No matter how much she might want to go on about her latest spiritual advisor's visit being a once-in-a-lifetime event, Blair knows it's just a coverup for the fact that she sees most bourgeois North American rituals as unimportant, silly, even a little sinister.

It doesn't help that Blair's graduation from high school is a major sign that both of them are getting older.

Naomi had wanted to send him to the Cascade Alternative High School when they first moved here, but Blair had worried that colleges would look askance at that, so the good old Warren G. Harding P.H.S. it was. Always able to make friends in unlikely places, Blair steered himself through the murky, jock-filled waters of public high school with very little trouble, and went from freshman to senior in only three years. Now he's just turned sixteen and all set to go to Rainier in the fall, and he's not interested in looking back. Once he gets that piece of paper, he's done, finished, finito. On to the next stage in his life.

It doesn't matter that she won't be there next week, he tells himself. After all, it's not like Naomi's involved herself very much in his education, at least recently. The teachers at Harding – affectionately nicknamed Hardon High by the students –  were fair but old-fashioned, and Naomi never got along with them. In fact, she argued with them so much that Blair begged her to stop attending parent conferences; since he always got straight A's and was the model student it was never that big of a deal anyway. He could tell she was disappointed in his relationship to the power structure – he approached his teachers with the philosophy of _keep smiling and turn in work so good they can't take points off for your hair_, and it worked. Naomi wanted him to stage sit-ins in the goddamned cafeteria, to run for class president on a GLBT ticket, but he knew from the beginning that high school was not going to be his battleground. He had his eyes on the future, and they did not include being cut down in the prime of life by a bunch of middle-aged public servants with one eye on the 1950's and the other on their fat pensions.

It doesn't matter that she won't be there next week, he thinks again, trying to be philosophical. They can't be the two musketeers for the rest of their lives.  
_  
Everything changes, sweetie_. Naomi's voice in his head when he's – what? Three, four? Anyway, it's one of his earliest memories, the two of them lying on top of a mud hut in Baja and watching meteors drop out of the sky, falling to their deaths. _Nothing lasts forever. And that's okay._

  


    
    
    
 

II

  
Three days before Blair's due to graduate from the Academy, he gets a tearful call from his mother telling him she's not going to be there. Jim tries not to eavesdrop, but when he hears the distress in Blair's voice as he speaks to her on the phone, he can't help but stretch his hearing out to pick up the other end of the conversation.

“You can't say I'll have many more graduations; this might be the last one.”

Jim can hear Naomi suck in a breath. “_Please don't say that. You're going to get your doctorate. I know you will._”

A sigh from Blair. “I don't think that's going to happen. Anyway, it's not important anymore.”

Jim ignores the stabbing sensation in his gut as Naomi says, “_But it was your destiny, sweetie!_”

Blair actually chuckles, the sound hollow. “Nothing lasts forever, right?”

It's not the first time it occurs to Jim that Blair might not want this. He's thought about it pretty much from day one, when they came home from the station and Blair went straight to bed and slept for fourteen solid hours, or from day two, when Simon told them Blair would have to go through the full roster of academy courses instead of just the weapons training. After that, he's thought about it nearly every damned day, because while Blair had taken to his classes readily enough, even the hand-to-hand combat, there's a little nagging voice in the back of Jim's brain that keeps asking why the hell Blair is sticking with this. No matter how much he thinks about it, he can't come up with any good answers.

As for Naomi and her disappointment and her guilt trips, that's a snap to figure out. All parents want a child molded in their own image, and Blair no longer fits that image. In some ways, it was easier for Jim; he was never the son his father had wanted, so he stopped trying a long time ago. He doesn't think it's hit Blair that he's not measuring up anymore.

“I'm sorry I can't make it,” Naomi says finally, and Blair's voice only cracks a little when he answers.

“Yeah, me too, Mom. Me, too.”

  


    
    
    
 

III

  
His name is Peter and he's a basketball player, the only other white guy on the team. He's pale and freckled and a good eight inches taller than Blair, all long lines and lean, ropy muscle. It's not that Blair doesn't find the black players attractive – he does – but to a man they're hopelessly straight, and treat him more like a favorite mascot than anything else. Blair doesn't mind excessively, because even being a second string point guard affords him certain coolness points, plus he gets to attend all the practices and hang out after games. His basketball's improved, and his social life is off the charts.

Peter's on the A-team, and he's good, and he could get way more action than he's getting now, which as far as Blair can tell is none. He seems to be unaware of the fact that any of the half dozen or so girls who faithfully attend the games would be more than happy to go out with him. Blair tries to drop some gentle hints, but Peter doesn't pick up on them, and then one day after a game they're all wolfing down burgers at their favorite hangout on Harbor Street and Peter looks across the table at him and smiles, slowly and speculatively. Blair feels incredibly stupid for about five seconds, and then he smiles back.

Blair's fifteen but it's not the first time he's ever done anything, just the first time with someone with matching equipment. Peter's sixteen and doesn't seem much more experienced than he is, because when they get back to Blair's place he fumbles with Blair's clothes for a while, hands fluttering nervously when they brush bare skin, and asks about a hundred times if Blair's mother is coming back anytime soon.

“She won't be home for hours, man. Now, just – can we – ” and Peter suddenly gets with the program, shoving Blair's t-shirt up over his head and starting on his jeans before Blair can draw breath to say anything else. Blair makes a concerted effort to catch up and soon has Peter down to his boxer shorts, which are – wow – this really astonishing shade of lime. If Peter's mother buys his underwear, she totally knows he's gay.

Blair may be young, but he's started to fill out in the last year – all that basketball has paid off in more ways than one – and while he'll probably never be tall, his voice has deepened, his jaw has squared off, and hair has been sprouting in all kinds of interesting places. The few assholes who liked to call him _fag _have stopped – their new favorite epithet is _hippie_, not that Blair gives a shit about either label, but it's an interesting change from an anthropological standpoint. Societies love to deal in stereotypes; sometimes he thinks it's the glue that binds them together.

Peter, however –  tall and lithe and covered in skin as translucent as porcelain –  is definitely worthy of _beautiful_, though Blair knows enough not to tell him so. Instead, he leans forward to kiss him, hoping that will say it for him.

But Peter jerks away before Blair can connect. “I, uh – ” he stammers, licking his lips nervously, “I don't do that.”

Blair wants to say, _You're sixteen years old; how the hell do you know what you do?_ but he doesn't; instead he nods and steps back. “Fine, no problem. You do this, though, right?” and he cups his hand over the front of Peter's violently pastel boxers. Peter groans and licks his lips again and nods frantically, then does the same to Blair, and bingo, they're finally making progress here.

And that would be when the front door of the apartment slams and Naomi calls, “Blair? Blair, sweetie, are you home?”

They barely manage to get back into their pants before Naomi's knocking on the door; Blair's muffled, “Just a minute!” comes out through the neck hole in his t-shirt as he wrestles it over his head. He sprints to the door and opens it just as Peter finishes buttoning his shirt, and he knows it's going to be obvious to her that they've been making out.

Or rather, not making out. Whatever.

Naomi takes in the scene with her usual wide smile before it turns subtly knowing. Blair manages the introductions, and Naomi apologizes to both of them for coming back early. “I was just stopping by to change for the concert,” she explains. “I'll be out of your hair in a jiffy.” With a final smile at Peter and a brief caress of Blair's cheek, she disappears as quickly as she's come.

When her bedroom door shuts, Peter snatches up his backpack and makes to leave. Blair grabs his arm. “Hey, man, didn't you hear her? She's going right out again. We can pick up where we left off.”

Peter turns back to look at him as if he's just grown an extra head. “Are you _nuts_?” he whispers, pointing an accusing finger down the hall. “She knows!”

Blair shrugs. “Well, yeah. My mother isn't exactly averse to the idea of sexual experimentation; she thinks it's a healthy part of human personal development.” He waves a hand. “Anyway. The point is, we don't have to stop.”

“I can't do this,” Peter says, shaking his head. “I can't do this knowing your mother thinks it's _cool_. Jesus Christ, Blair.”

Blair frowns. “So if nobody knew, or if my mother was screaming and kicking us out, that would be a big turn-on for you?”

Peter huffs out a breath, and Blair lets him go. When he reaches the door, he turns around and says, “Look, I'll see you next practice, okay?” like they haven't been groping each other's dicks not five minutes before.

“Yeah, sure,” Blair mutters to Peter's retreating back. “See you around.” When he hears the front door open and close, he shuts his own door and sits cross-legged on the bed, seeking his center, trying to clear his mind and achieve a higher, more objective view of the situation.

It's tough to be a detached observer of human frailties and conditions when your balls are blue, he decides after a few frustrated minutes, unbuttoning his jeans and clearing his mind in the most basic way possible. When it's over, he lies staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, remembering the arc of dying meteors and taking comfort in the knowledge that his adolescence, like everything else, will eventually be history.

  


    
    
    
 

IV

  
“So is this what you call shacking up?” Megan asks, her hand sweeping to take in the mountain cottage Rafe and Henri have bought together. The assembled crowd laughs, and Rafe makes a face at her.

“How many times do we have to tell you,” Henri explains patiently, slinging an arm around her shoulders, “that he gets it half the year, I get it half the year. It's like a time share.”

“Starsky and Hutch bought a house together,” Simon points out.

Jim takes another swig of his beer as Megan shrugs, obviously unimpressed. “Oh, please,” she says, “everyone knows that Starsky and Hutch were boffing like bunnies.” She looks around at the others for confirmation, and Jim sees the women nodding as the guys just look stricken.

Rafe holds a hand to his heart. “She's sullying my childhood, man. Make her stop.” The laughter is dominated by the higher registers, and gradually most of the guys either drift off toward the lake or over to the barbecue, where they make grunting noises over the blackening meat.

Blair isn't in either of those groups, choosing to stand off to one side at the opposite end of the deck from the barbecue, gazing out into the deepest part of the woods. He's been down since the call from his mother yesterday, and Jim doesn't know how to bring it up to him. If he does, he'll have to admit he was eavesdropping, and Jim doesn't want to do anything that might make him run. He's never been more sure in his life that Blair is poised for flight; his whole posture even now suggests he's about to bolt off into the wilderness, never to be heard from again.

Last night he had that dream again, the one where Blair was the wolf, only instead of shooting him with an arrow, Jim was a panther chasing him through the jungle. He was practically _flying, _his paws barely hitting the forest floor, and he could feel the muscles bunching and releasing under his pelt, the minor corrections instinctive as he dodged tree trunks and sailed over fallen logs. When he finally caught up to him, he leapt onto Blair's back and rolled with him, finally emerging on top, staring down at the wolf as he transformed back into the man.

Blair's hair was wild and his cheeks were flushed and his face and neck were sheened with sweat. Jim leaned down to lick salt from the skin over his jugular, and found that he, too, was back to normal, whatever the fuck that was. Still, that didn't stop him from lapping at every inch of Blair he could reach while still holding onto him.

“Christ, Jim,” Blair gasped, squirming and pushing futilely against Jim's hold. “You've got to let me go. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Jim rasped, pressing his nose into Blair's armpit and scenting him like he was in heat. “Yeah, I know. Just – give me a little bit more. Just a little bit more.”

“I can't,” Blair choked, still shoving at him. “I can't, Jim, I can't, I can't – ”

Jim woke up with his heart hammering against his ribs and his lips moving soundlessly: _you can you can you can you can_...

He sees Megan walk up to Blair, sees her nudge him with an elbow, stirring him from his reverie. She leans in and speaks to him, and Jim can tell from her profile that she's concerned. It's tough to tell from Blair's expression what his reactions are; usually, he's an open book, but today his face gives nothing away. They've taught him well at the Academy. Interrogation techniques 101, first lesson: don't let the perp see what's in your head.

Jim looks away. It's the same expression Blair had last night in the dream. Like he'd already packed up and left, and only his body was left behind, a shell for Jim to rut against.

He hears a commotion over at the other end of the deck and turns. Henri is chasing Rafe around the barbecue, yelling, “Aw, Hutch baby! Kiss me!” to the howls of the men and the yelping protests of Rafe.

Jim thinks _they wouldn't understand_ and then _they would_ and then decides he doesn't give a damn either way.

  


    
    
    
 

V

  
When Blair is six they move again. He was too young to remember the details of the first couple of moves, but his body is suffused with a kind of restlessness that makes him watchful and afraid in the middle of the night, not of anything as mundane as monsters under the bed, but of upheaval, the very surface of the earth yawning like a hungry mouth and swallowing his tiny room.

“Can't we stay?” he asks, plaintively, because this time he has clear, real memories of everything that happened to him here. The land around the commune is gently rolling and verdant in the summer and he and the other boys and girls spend hours out in the fresh air, running and laughing and tumbling through fields filled with the sharp scent of wild, warm grass. The winter was mild, but since Blair has never seen a white Christmas, he doesn't miss it. He only knows that he loves this place, and never wants to leave.

Naomi squats down to his level and shakes her head. “I'm sorry, Blair. I can't explain to you all the reasons we're leaving, but I can tell you it's best for us to go.”

“Don't you love me anymore?” The words are out before he can censor them, and once they're spoken he feels stupid, a baby. Even at this age, Blair hates to say or do anything that might be labeled as _childish_; he's as comfortable around adults as he is around other kids, and he already prides himself on being able to talk about important things like disarmament and the plight of migrant workers.

Naomi sucks in a breath at that, and Blair sees tears form in the corners of her eyes. “You know that I love you, I love you more than anything in this world, sweetie,” she says, catching his small body in her arms and holding him tightly. Blair hears the words, but nothing can change the fact that she's making him leave the best home he's ever known, and it's the first time he understands that people can lie without believing they have, because deep down he can't really love her the way her words tell him.

“We're still the two musketeers, aren't we?” she asks, still wrapped around him, and her voice is too small and uncertain for him to say what he really wants to say. No matter how much he wants to at this moment, he can't bring himself to hurt her, to pull the earth out from under her feet the way she's just done to him.

“Yeah, Mom,” he answers, hands rising to return her hug as best he can. “We'll always be the two musketeers.”

  


    
    
    
 

VI

  
Jim raises his hand to knock on Blair's door, but some impulse stills his hand before it can connect. Instead, he finds himself turning the knob and pushing the door open just enough for him to peer inside. The morning light is pouring in the windows and spilling over his bed, but Blair is still snoring softly, his hair a fluffy, unruly cloud around him on the pillow.

Jim knows he should turn away, close the door behind him and go put the coffee on. Instead, his feet take him further into the room, closer to the bed, until he's standing over Blair and staring down at him, his heartbeat so loud in his ears he wouldn't hear a cannon go off right beside him.

He wants – he wants to say he doesn't know what he wants, but that's a lie. The feeling starts in his gut as a slow, sweet ache, and he knows what it is, recognizes it as easily as the face that greets him in the mirror every morning. It's terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, like freefall, like white water rafting, like realizing you've placed your heart in another person's hands and don't have a hope in hell of getting it back.

He's leaning down, one hand outstretched to touch, when Blair snorts and flails himself awake.

“Wha – Jim?” Blair blinks and shoves himself up on his elbows. “Something the matter?”

“Uh – no, no,” Jim returns, shaking his head to clear it. “Just – I thought I'd put on some coffee. You want light or dark?”

Blair frowns slightly, and Jim realizes he's processing that incredibly lame excuse. “Uh – light, I guess,” he says slowly, and Jim resists the urge to bang his head against the nearest solid surface, because Blair has to know he didn't come in here just to ask him about his goddamned coffee preference. “Jim, are you sure you're okay? ”

“I'm fine,” Jim manages, teeth clamping around the words that want to get out. _I don't want you to do this for me. I'll survive without you. If you don't want to go through with it, for Christ's sake, just say so._

He keeps the words inside because he knows every one of them is a lie, and because the last thing he wants to hear right now is the truth. “I'll – go put that coffee on,” he murmurs, turning away from Blair's now frankly speculative expression.

  


    
    
    
 

VII

  
When Blair is eleven Naomi lives with this guy who asks her to marry him.

Blair has seen a lot of men – and a couple of women – move in and out of Naomi's life. She's not promiscuous, usually staying with one person for several months at a time, but by this age Blair has determined a pattern in her relationships: she tends to be drawn to people who can offer some experience that will broaden her horizons, usually in non-conventional directions. Hence the Renaissance lute player, the Tibetan political activist, the performance tattoo artist.

Graham is an anomaly, an editor for an organic farmers' magazine who is – well, pretty much normal, by most people's standards. He owns a ten-acre farm in the San Fernando Valley, which provides produce for local vegetarian restaurants and inspiration for his articles. He has grown up on the land he works and he intends to die there. He is all about stability, permanence, forever.

This would be why he gets down on one knee over dessert one Sunday night, Naomi horrorstruck as he presents his grandmother's ring, Blair looking on with wide, shocked eyes.

_You putz_, he thinks but doesn't say. _You've gone and ruined it._

“It's just – so _bourgeois_,” Naomi cries, as Blair hands her another Kleenex. She dabs at her eyes, and when she speaks there's a mixture of anger, hurt and confusion in her tone. “I mean – I thought he understood me. Understood the way I want to live my life.”

Blair's heard Naomi rail against marriage as institutionalized prostitution cum slavery often enough for him to know where this conversation is headed. He looks out over the meadow, where Graham's cow is happily eating clover, raising its head every now and then to watch them as they sit beneath the massive oak tree at the edge of the property. “Maybe he thought he would be the one,” Blair says, shrugging.

Naomi blinks at him. “'The one'?” she asks, shaking her head. “What one?”

Blair leans back against the trunk, letting its solidity seep into his bones, trying to experience as much of this place as he can. They won't be here much longer. “The one you'd want to spend the rest of your life with.”

Naomi stares at him, then laughs that light musical laugh that of all her unique qualities is the most distinctive thing about his mother. “Oh, Blair. You've been watching too many of those old movies.” It's true: Graham loves classic films, and in the four months they've been here, he's shared dozens with Blair, who enjoys the simplicity of a happily-ever-after ending even as he doubts such a thing exists. “There is no 'one' person for me, for anyone. That's a Victorian myth propagated by the patriarchy.”

Blair doesn't say anything, because deluded by the patriarchy or not, Graham is a nice guy, possibly the nicest guy Blair's ever met, and definitely the nicest guy Naomi's ever been with. He's fallen head over heels in love with her, and he's too nice to realize that the minute that happened, he was doomed. Last night he asked Blair how he might like to live here forever, and Blair had to bite his tongue to stop himself from telling Graham to keep his mouth shut, because as soon as he proposed to Naomi, she would run. It's not up to him to manage his mother's love life, or to offer advice to guys who don't have the sense to see her for who she really is.

Naomi Sandburg is a free spirit shackled to the ideal of freedom, dedicated to the rejection of commitment. Blair doubts that anyone could love her enough to keep her from running. In fact, the opposite is true: too much love is a prison from which Naomi will do anything to escape.

Blair loves her just enough to keep her close, but he's had a decade of practice, of learning the boundaries of his complicated, beautiful mother.

Graham never had a chance.

  


    
    
    
 

VIII

  
“You realize this is the longest I've ever lived in one place?”

Jim shakes his head at the non sequitur, delivered as it is in the middle of the halftime recap as they sit in front of the TV on Sunday watching the Jags game. “I thought you told me you'd lived in Cascade for over half your life,” he said.

Blair waves a hand. “I'm talking about actual place of residence, here. I've been pretty nomadic – moving from apartment to apartment, spending at least a couple of months every year in Borneo or Mexico or – ”

“ – other countries with names ending in 'o'.”

Blair shoots him a look. “Yeah, smart alec. Anyway, I'm just saying that living here is some kind of record, like one for my personal Guinness book, you know?”

“So what do you want, a fucking medal?” Jim startles them both with the harsh question, and his face flushes as Blair stares at him.

“No,” Blair says carefully. “It was just an observation, Jim.”

“Yeah, I – uh, sorry,” Jim says lamely, and after a minute Blair nods and turns back to the screen. The thing is, Jim's been doing a lot of thinking about Blair and the subject of permanence over the last few months as Blair has gone through the Academy, and he's reached certain conclusions on the subject, none of which he's willing to share with Blair. Jim understands that the life of an anthropology grad student allowed Blair a sort of stable instability; he was off around the world every summer, there was a steady stream of young, attractive people to choose from, he could always take off to another part of the world whenever he found himself getting tied down or stale. At the police station everyone knows everyone else's business and there's a wide range of ages and shapes, not all of them pleasing. It's the same old same old, day in and day out, and every night he comes home to the same person.

There are times when Jim's sure he's crazy for wanting to hold him here, and then there are times when he's dying to ask, _Why did you?_ and _Does this mean?_  This is one of the latter times; Christ, he's practically bursting with things he wants to say, and he's never been a man who's had trouble keeping his own counsel. Something about Blair has always made him want to speak, made the words come out whether he wants them to or not.

“Do you think – ” he starts, and Blair turns his head, eyebrows raised expectantly. He clears his throat and tries again. “I mean,_ I _think – ” Jesus, could he be any more of an idiot? He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

Blair turns toward him, hoisting one leg up on the couch and slinging one arm across the back. “Go ahead,” he encourages softly, his attention fully engaged for what seems like the first time in weeks, and Jim's helpless to do anything but spill his guts right there in the living room.

“I think – some things can be forever.” He sounds like a fucking Hallmark card, and Blair gazes at him for a long moment, his expression registering so many conflicting emotions that Jim doesn't have a hope in hell of untangling the mess. Christ, he has enough trouble sorting out his own chaos; what is he supposed to do with this?

“Jim, are you – ” Blair begins, reaching toward him, and Jim's off the couch before he even knows he's moved.

“I gotta get up early tomorrow,” he says gruffly. “Good night, Sandburg.”

When Jim glances back, Blair's hand is still frozen halfway to the place where Jim used to be. “Yeah,” he says hollowly, not looking at him. “Good night, Jim.”

  


    
    
    
 

IX

  
When Victoria, his third college girlfriend, lasts more than four months, Blair's convinced he's in love with her. She's pretty but not gorgeous, gregarious but not a social butterfly, sweet but not a pushover; in other words, a solid, dependable choice. There's no way she's going to flake out on him; she's in this for the long haul.

He knows she's getting serious when she invites him to her parents' place for Thanksgiving, and that is – well, kind of like paying a visit to another planet for the afternoon. Vicki's mother is one of those Donna Reed types and her father watches the football game on mute out of the corner of his eye the whole way through dinner. He also wears an Arnold Palmer cardigan and talks about Reagan in glowing terms while eyeing Blair's hair, as if it's going to fly off his head and envelop him in some kind of evil Communist plot.

“Sorry,” Vicki says afterwards, wincing, “they can be a little – well, annoying.”

“The turkey was good, though.” _Butterball_, her mom had said proudly, the way Naomi used to invoke _Che _or _Malcolm, _and he suddenly has a vision of Vicki in a flower print dress and a beehive hairdo presenting him with one of those fluorescent Jell-O molds with the fruit cocktail lodged in it, and maybe it's then that he realizes the relationship is ultimately doomed.

They're a day away from their six month anniversary when Blair gets the call about the New Guinea trip. He goes to her place the next night all set to tell her about it, but gets cold feet when she opens the door, the small bachelor apartment crammed with flickering candles. She's cooked him a Pad Thai that makes his eyes water, and it takes him two hours to get up the balls to tell her.

Two hours, fifteen minutes and a few tears later, he's standing on the other side of her closed door. For the first time in his life he's the one who's made the decision to leave.

He's become his mother, and that scares the shit out of him.

  


    
    
    
 

X  


Jim gets up early that morning and goes to work, even though his shift doesn't start until ten. When he clocks out he picks up his dress uniform for tomorrow's graduation ceremony from the dry-cleaner's, drives aimlessly around town for a while, then returns home weary and out of sorts around eight.

Blair's lying with his sock feet propped up on the couch, reading that new biography of Margaret Mead he's been talking about. Something inside Jim softens and yields to the inevitable at the  familiar sight of Sandburg here, in his space. Their space, now, though he isn't under any illusions that Blair understands that.

He knows he can't keep Blair, but God, how he wants to believe he can.

“Hey, Jim,” Blair says, glancing up and smiling at him. “I made seafood lasagna. There's a piece for you on the top shelf, salad's on the bottom.”

Jim swallows around the foolish lump in his throat. “I – uh, thanks,” he says, kicking off his shoes and hanging the uniform on the coat hook on the wall. Blair's gaze flickers over the bag.

“Dress blues?” he asks, too casually.

“Yeah,” Jim says. “Big day tomorrow.”

“You, um,” Blair begins, and the fact that he's obviously at a loss makes something cold and hollow form in Jim's chest. “Is anybody from the station going to be there?”

Jim hesitates; he's not sure what the right answer is here, so he tries to keep it light instead of saying, _of course they're going to fucking be there; they're you're family_. Blair, he remembers, has grown up with differing expectations. “Just about everybody you've ever worked with, Sandburg. Not too many.”

Blair actually looks thunderstruck; Jim watches him absorb this, and his voice is rough when he says, “Wow. That's – that's fine. I mean, that's nice of them.” He chuckles briefly. “No pressure, then.”

Jim feels as though he's been kicked in the stomach. “I – look, if you don't want them to be there, just – ”

Blair's up off the couch before he can finish the sentence, coming toward him, and shit, Jim can't do this; he backs up like a skittish horse. Blair halts, sensing his unease. “No, I'm – it's not that, I'm grateful they're going to be there. Really. I'm – yeah.” He nods, a slow smile spreading over his face. “It – uh, it means a lot to know they're going to be there, actually.”

Jim clenches his fists at his sides, because Blair looks so fucking beautiful in that moment that he wants to crawl inside him and never come out. “Blair, you – ” He takes a deep breath and blurts it out before he can tell himself not to. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Blair's smile disappears in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Jim's jaw clenches. “I mean what I'm saying,” he says. “Are you sure you want to be a cop?”

Blair stares at him, then surprises him by bursting out laughing. “Wow, Jim. You're asking me this _now_?”

Well, now he feels like an idiot. “Yeah, I'm asking you now,” he snaps. “Why don't you answer the question?”

Blair spreads his hands in a pacification gesture that just pisses Jim off even more. “I guess I'm trying to figure out why you would think I'd suddenly change my mind the day before my graduation.”

“Because of the way you've been moping around for the past few days!” Jim shouts, exasperated. “Because you've been acting like you're going to a wake tomorrow.” _Because I don't know if you've ever really wanted this_, he wants to say but doesn't.

Blair stands for a moment, frozen and stunned, then nods slowly. “Yeah, I, uh, I guess I have, now that you mention it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I've been – stuck in my own head lately, taking a trip down memory lane.”

“Good memories or bad?” Jim asks tentatively.

Blair shrugs. “Neither, really.”

Jim makes a helpless gesture. “Then – ”

“Okay, so I've been thinking about it,” Blair admits suddenly. “I've been thinking about the fact that I grew up with someone who taught me that to stay in one place for too long, intellectually or literally, was about the worst thing you could ever do. I'm moving into a new phase of life, fine, it's all fresh and exciting to me right now. But what happens in five years, or ten? Will I still want to be doing this? Will I even be capable of doing this? I don't want to commit to this – to you – and then walk away. That's not fair to you.”

“Well, maybe I shouldn't have asked you to do this in the first place,” Jim says, because since it's all going to hell anyway he might as well speed it along. “Maybe I was just being selfish.”

Blair blinks at him. “Wait a minute. What are you saying, exactly? ”

“I'm saying I don't want you to look back on this moment five years from now and wonder why the hell you said yes,” Jim grits, taking a step forward. “I'm saying I was thinking about me more than I was thinking about you when I made the offer. I wanted you to have a reason to stay.”

Blair shakes his head slowly. “You – you didn't ask me because you thought I'd make a good cop?”

Jim gapes at him for a few moments; he's standing here with his guts hanging out and Blair isn't even noticing. “I think you'll make a terrific cop,” he says weakly. “That's not – ”

“I mean objectively,” Blair interrupts.

“I can't be objective,” Jim protests. Shit, he's getting dragged under and he can't even call out to Blair for a lifeline, because Blair is the one shoving his head under the water.

Blair smiles. “Well, that wasn't exactly a fair question, since objectivity in any endeavor is basically meaningless. You have to be aware of the prejudices and preconceptions you're bringing to the table.”

Jim stands there like a dick for a couple of seconds, then takes three steps forward, curves his fingers around Blair's chin and kisses him.

“That's one of my prejudices,” he says when he pulls back. “Thought you should know.”

“Oh,” Blair manages, eyes glazed. “Okay. Thanks.”

Jim turns, because he needs to get out of here now. “I, um,” Blair says; Jim turns back but can't quite meet Blair's eyes, focusing on his right earlobe instead.

“What?” Jim murmurs.

“I know it's a corny line, but how long have you, uh – felt this way?”

“For a while,” Jim says.

“How long?” Blair repeats, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice.

Jim crosses his arms. “I don't know, Sandburg, I didn't write the damned day down in my diary.” Which is the truth only insofar as he doesn't own a diary, because he remembers the moment like it had happened yesterday instead of more than eight months ago. It was a Tuesday, and he was chopping Chinese lettuce and fat orange peppers for one of Blair's monster stir-frys, and he thought, _This is what I want, and I want it forever_. There is no way in hell, however, he is saying this aloud. “I shouldn't have told you,” he mutters instead.

“Why not?”

“Because this isn't about what I want. I'm not your mother, Sandburg.”

And right then Jim realizes he's fucked up in a major way, because Blair's gaze grows distant and untouchable, like he's already boarding the plane to somewhere Jim isn't.

“Yeah, but maybe I am,” he murmurs.

Before Jim can come up with a response to that, Blair is already out the door.

  


    
    
    
 

XI

  
Blair wakes up feeling like several hundred strangers have been busily stomping on his skull all night. To say it's the crappiest he's ever felt is probably accurate, only this is so far from any previous level of crappy he's attained that it seems to deserve its own category.

He can see a hell of a lot more than he could before, but there's a glowing fringe of gold obscuring the edges of his vision, making whatever's dead in the center seem limned by an unearthly halo. He slowly turns his head to survey the room, and nearly vaults out of his skin when he focuses on Jim's worried face only a couple of feet from his own, eyes squinted myopically. He shuts his own eyes in self-preservation for a moment, but Jim's concerned voice pursues him in his retreat.

“Blair? Hey, you okay, buddy? You awake?” A tentative brush of fingers against Blair's cheek makes him crack his eyes open again; Jim's still there, and this time Blair can see the worry and – God, desperation – in Jim's expression.

“M'fine,” Blair manages to croak, his voice rusty from disuse. Man, how long has he been out? He searches his memory, and he's flooded by vague, flashing impressions: stark, unreasoning fear, feet pounding down the stairs trying to escape, the smell of gasoline and rubber, the weight of Jim's revolver in his hands...

Jesus Christ. “Did – hurt anybody?” he rasps. Frustrated at his patchy memory, he struggles to sit up, only to be stopped by the firm pressure of Jim's hand against his chest.

“Shh, calm down, nothing happened, everybody's fine,” Jim murmurs, and suddenly Blair's blindsided by another memory, of being cocooned in Jim's arms, strong and solid, of feeling as though he could happily spend an eternity in that safe haven. It's a feeling that should frighten him, but all he can summon is a sharp ache, a desperate longing to be back there right _now_.

It's the last of the Golden talking, he knows that, but it doesn't stop his hand from reaching up to entwine with Jim's where it rests over his heart. He feels Jim's fingers stiffen for a moment, then slide between his own, two pieces of a puzzle coming together at last, and God, his heart is racing for an entirely different reason now.

“I thought I'd – God, don't do that again, okay?” Jim's voice is small and close to breaking, and Blair squeezes his fingers as hard as he can.

“Can't get rid o'me – that easily,” he says. Jim chuckles, but he's still holding on when Blair drifts off to sleep again.

  


    
    
    
 

XII

  
Jim spends a restless night on the couch, and when he wakes up there's still no sign of Sandburg. He tries Blair's cell phone a dozen times and gets routed to the answering machine every time. He doesn't leave a message, but he does enjoy cursing liberally after he hangs up.

At nine-fifteen, he straightens his tie one last time in the mirror and walks out the door. Forty minutes later he's sitting in the auditorium at the civic centre surrounded by his brothers and sisters in blue, a fake smile plastered to his face as he scans the stage and the chairs down in front for a sign of Blair.

Megan follows the line of his gaze. “I haven't seen him either,” she murmurs out of the side of her mouth.

“He'll be here,” Jim says stubbornly, even though he's never been less sure of anything in his life.

“Did you have a fight?” Megan asks. “Is something wrong?”

Jim shakes his head. _Nothing serious. I just told him I was in love with him, and he ran like hell. _Aloud, he says, “No. Everything's fine.”

He can feel Megan's too-perceptive gaze boring into the side of his face. “That's good,” she murmurs, “because he seemed a little – conflicted – on the weekend up at Rafe and Henri's.”

Jim clenches his jaw. “Did he – say anything to you?” he asks, knowing his tone is anything but casual.

“Not really. I told him something, though.” She leans in again, and Jim feels her breath tickling his ear as she whispers, “I told him that if he was afraid, he should get out now.”

Jim turns toward her, a wave of anger slamming into him. “He's not afraid to do the job,” he growls.

Megan only regards him serenely, unfazed by his fury. “I wasn't talking about the job,” she says calmly.

Jim stares at her, poleaxed, because Jesus, she can't be talking about what he thinks she's talking about, can she?

Megan's expression softens at what he's sure is the panic evident on his face. “I'm sure he'll be here,” she says reassuringly, but Jim is not at all reassured, and after a moment she turns away.

The ceremony begins, and the waves of polite applause – in addition to the odd whoop – wash over Jim as the names are read off. Like all good ceremonies, they're going in alphabetical order, which means Jim gets to spend a good twenty minutes with his guts in a slowly tightening knot as they steadily plow through to the S's. By the time they get to Ryerson, he feels like he wants to puke.

And then: “_Blair Sandburg_,” the voice booms out over the hall, leaving an echo in its wake that swiftly fades to somber silence.

Jim closes his eyes. _Calm the fuck down, it's not like you didn't know this was coming_, he tells himself, but it doesn't do any good. Blair is gone and Jim's the one who held the door open for him. He's got no one to blame but himself, for trying to hold Blair too close to him, trying to anchor him to his own corny, hopelessly middle-class dreams of home and family.

The irony is that Jim had pretty much given up on those dreams until Blair came into his life.

Suddenly Megan is gripping his wrist, her nails digging into his skin. “Jim, Jim!” she cries. “He's here!”

Jim opens his eyes in time to see Blair bounding up the steps, taking them two at a time. His hair's tied in a ponytail at the back, peeking out from under his stupid, beautiful cap, and around him a couple of dozen cops erupt into raucous, joyful cheers.

“Hey, Saaaaaaaaaandbuuuuuuurg!” Rafe calls, between his cupped palms. Beside him, Henri shoots him an exasperated look, then punches the air with his fist and lets out a low, whooping catcall. Joel is clapping like a maniac, and Simon is grinning so widely Jim is worried his face will split in half.

Jim is too stunned to clap; instead, he sits glued to his seat, reeling with the abrupt change in his fortunes. Stubbornly, his inner voice reminds him that this doesn't necessarily mean anything, that just because Blair has decided to see this particular ritual through to its conclusion, that doesn't mean he's signing up for the rest of it. And he's just decided he can live with that when he sees Blair's gaze rise as he's accepting his diploma, home in on him like radar until he's staring straight into Jim's eyes, and suddenly every other person in the crowded auditorium disappears, and Jim can't hear anything but the steady hum of his own blood coursing through his veins.

And then Blair grins and winks at him and Jim slams back into awareness, gripping the arms of the chair as the cacophony around him comes surging back. Within moments he's cheering the loudest, not caring that his ears will pay for it later.

  


    
    
    
 

XIII

  
They drive home separately but meet in the parking garage under the loft, drawn together like a magnet to lodestone. Blair lets the pull reel him in, bring him closer to Jim, Jim's gaze on him the whole time, making his skin tingle.

For about the thousandth time in the last twenty-four hours, he wonders how he could've been so damned blind.

“So, uh, you remember what you said last night about not being objective?” he murmurs, returning the heat in Jim's gaze with some of his own.

Jim only raises his eyebrows, and damn if that silent treatment doesn't turn Blair all the way on. “That, ah, that might be a shared prejudice,” Blair says roughly.

Jim shuts his eyes briefly as his mouth opens on a soundless gasp, and Jesus, if this is the way Jim reacts to words, what'll happen when they actually –

Then Jim lays a hand, hot and heavy, on Blair's neck, right where it joins his shoulder, and the air leaves Blair's lungs in a _whoosh. _He stands there motionless as Jim moves closer, helpless under the weight of his gaze and the spread of his fingers.

“Blair,” Jim murmurs, breath tickling Blair's lips, “are you sure – ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Blair says, a little impatient because he wants the kissing to start right now, and who knew Jim was the world's biggest tease? He tries to arch up to capture Jim's mouth, but Jim straightens a split second before he can connect.

“Not a good idea,” Jim growls, and Blair jerks back to look at him.

“What are you talking about? This is the best idea since they invented halftime shows.”

Jim leans in again, looming over him, and suddenly Blair's back is against a concrete pillar, and wow, that's way more exciting than he would have thought it'd be.

“Not a good idea to start groping each other in the parking garage, Sandburg,” Jim murmurs, brushing his lips against Blair's ear and making him shudder. “'Cause once I start, it's gonna be a long time before I stop.”

Blair groans and grabs a fistful of Jim's jacket, more to hold himself upright than to hold Jim close. “Okay,” he manages weakly. “Good point,” and then they're moving toward the elevator, Blair half-stumbling, legs shaky from a powerful cocktail of lust and adrenaline.

In the space of one afternoon, he's participated in a life-changing ritual, embarked on a new career path, and now he's apparently going to have sex with Jim. Which on the surface of it should be terrifying, because sex with Jim is so much more than sex: it's commitment, it's permanence, it's fucking _forever. _If he binds himself to Jim this way, something tells him he won't have a hope in hell of getting loose.

But instead of terrifying him, the thought keeps him warm the whole way up in the elevator, where Jim stays as far away from Blair as possible and Blair can feel the pressure of their combined desire as a palpable thing inside the tiny space, practically threatening to blow out the walls.

They make it into the apartment, and after Jim closes the door and they turn to look at one another there's this weird moment of perfect stillness where neither of them seems to know what to do next. Right before Blair steps toward him, Jim murmurs, “Eight months.” Blair's confused at first before he realizes what it means, and then his heart stops beating for a few seconds.

“Jesus, Jim,” he breathes, and then Jim's on him, hands bracketing his face as he dives in for a kiss that's two hundred and forty days of pent-up frustration and lust and God, _love_, and Blair's helpless to do anything but take it, but that's okay because this is quite possibly the biggest gift he's ever received in his life.

All too soon Jim pulls back, whispers hoarsely, “Are you staying?” while still holding Blair's face between his hands. Blair's too dazed to answer, and before he can manage to make his brain work Jim's speaking again. “Never mind, I don't care. Just – I'll take tonight, if that's all I – ”

All at once, Blair's skin feels too small. “Jim. Hey, listen,” he begins, but then Jim's kissing him again and talking gets kind of tough after that. He wants to ease Jim's fears, but once Jim unbuttons his uniform jacket and dress shirt and shoves it down his arms, trapping them, he kind of forgets his own name for a while. When he remembers what he's supposed to be doing, he's pretty busy groaning as Jim's hands glide over his chest, his belly, his nipples, fingers sure and strong.

He tries to take back control, but Jim's got both hands firmly on the wheel, and when Blair makes an attempt to undress Jim, he's gently but firmly rebuffed. “You want to see me naked, Sandburg,” Jim growls into his mouth, “all you gotta do is ask.”

Blair's nothing if not accommodating. “I want to see you naked,” he murmurs against Jim's parted lips, but it comes out sounding more intimate than playful, like he wants nothing more than to see Jim Ellison stripped bare, exposed down to his soul. It's a bit of a shock when Blair swiftly realizes that's _exactly _what he wants.

Jim seems to pick up on the double meaning, too, because his eyes narrow and he takes a step back, like a panther poised for flight. Blair holds his breath as the uncertainty reveals itself on Jim's face, and then those pale blue eyes grow determined and shuttered again, and his mouth curls in a small smile as he reaches for his shirt buttons.

Blair watches the slow striptease, transfixed, but he can tell there's something else underlying Jim's movements, a faint hint of fear in the calculated way he reveals his skin to Blair. It's not a striptease so much as the exposure of armor, the revelation of the layer of insulation that keeps the world at arm's length, that keeps the man inside safe and untouched. He's trying to protect himself from _Blair, _and the realization chills Blair to the bone.

Jim steps out of his boxers and stands before him, naked and hard, not a single bit of softness anywhere, especially not around the eyes, and spreads his hands. “You like what you see?” he says, and it's a gruff challenge, like his stance. _Just try and leave me_, his body seems to be saying, but there's no confidence behind the dare, only defiance and a whiff of desperation.

It occurs to him that Jim's probably been waiting for him to leave since that first week, and he's never really stopped, not even after their lives became so intertwined that Blair stopped even thinking about finding his own place, let alone haring off halfway across the world. But then, it's not like Blair ever gave him the impression he wouldn't do just that, and it's not like Blair wasn't fooling himself for years that he might.

He spent most of last night and this morning thinking about this, about them. Thinking about the past, and the present, and the future, and how they weave together and loop back on one another until it's impossible to separate them. Their shared past is everywhere, in this place, and he loves every reminder of that – the photo album full of memories, the Cree fishing spear that yielded not one fish because neither of them was coordinated enough to use it, the autographed basketball that would be the object of a custody battle if they ever broke up.

They didn't know it, but they were working on forever practically from the beginning.

And that's why he takes three steps forward, closing the distance between them, and takes Jim's hands in his as he gazes up into his eyes. “I don't like what I see,” he murmurs. “I love what I see.”

Blair watches as Jim cycles through disbelief through wariness to tentative hope, watches as he leans in and kisses him slowly, tasting him, feeling him, seeking the truth with his senses. If anyone can do it, Jim can, so Blair allows himself to be experienced, and soon enough he can feel Jim find his answer, a shudder passing through Jim's body as though he's shaking the armor loose from his skin.

Blair looked out over the faces this morning and felt proud, felt like he _belonged _here, with these people. Tonight, he looks into Jim's face and knows he's found the one person he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

Jim's kisses soon turn hungry, but that edge of desperation is gone, and Blair concentrates on giving back as much as he can, trying to tell Jim without words how much he wants this. _I'm staying_, he says with his hands on Jim's hips; _I'm staying_, he says with the way he holds Jim's gaze, steady and unwavering; _I'm staying_, he says with his mouth as he slides to the floor.

“Jesus, Blair, wait – ” but Blair's not in the mood for waiting, and he licks a warm, wet swath up the underside of Jim's cock, then takes it in his hand and wraps his lips around the head. “Oh, God, that's – ” Jim's hands reach for Blair, caressing his hair as Blair begins to suck.

Within minutes, whatever reserves of control Jim possessed are depleted to the breaking point, and the next time Blair takes him in, he thrusts helplessly into Blair's mouth. He draws back almost immediately, but Blair won't let him off that easily; he follows him, taking him in almost to the root, and Jim bites out a choked-off groan and pumps again, once, twice. Blair digs his fingers into Jim's hipbones and encourages his shallow, uncoordinated strokes until they're fluid and deep.

“Not like this,” Blair hears Jim murmur above him, and then he's stepping back and away and Blair makes a sound of protest. Strong hands wrap around his upper arms and haul him to his feet, and Jim's mouth finds his, the contact brief and intense. “C'mon,” he says, heading for the stairs, and the fact that he doesn't turn back to assure himself Blair's behind him makes Blair smile as he sets to work on the buttons of his uniform trousers.

Blair's a little behind because of the whole getting naked thing, so he takes the stairs two at a time, building up momentum so that when he and Jim come together again it's a little like a flying tackle. Jim lands dead center of the bed with a surprised _ooof _and Blair's right there, straddling Jim's taut, aroused body, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be at that moment.

Until, that is, Jim gets with the program, rolls him over and straddles _him. _

“Okay, that works, too,” Blair admits, getting a lot turned on when Jim treats him to a feral grin. Jim  then leans down and starts – Christ, the only way to describe it is _scenting _behavior, like he's a wild animal checking to make sure his mate is in heat. Boy, Blair is in heat all right, and if Jim doesn't quit sniffing and start –

Jim bites lightly on the cords of Blair's neck, then licks his way lightning-quick straight to Blair's nipples. Blair shouts and arches, surprised by the move and more aroused than he can remember being since he was eighteen and far too horny for his own good. He shouts some more when Jim shifts above him and wraps his hand around his dick, and tries to get enough movement into his hips to help, but Jim only tightens his knees on either side of Blair's body, holding him still. His yell swiftly turns into a frustrated grunt; Jim looks up at him, shakes his head.

“Let me,” he murmurs, “just this time, let me,” and Blair gasps and nods jerkily, as much because Jim's implying there'll be a next time as because he's really hot when he's in control. Blair would never have thought that Jim's stay-in-the-truck mode would be a turn-on when applied to the bedroom, but right at this moment he's willing to let Jim do just about whatever he wants, up to but not including the introduction of barnyard animals, as long as he keeps talking in that husky, half-broken voice.

Jim begins to pump Blair's cock in a slow, sensuous rhythm and Blair lies there and takes it, and this passive thing has its advantages, because this way he can concentrate on everything Jim is doing to him, every stage of his mounting arousal. He stares up at Jim, panting, as Jim watches him, his gaze a caress in itself. He feels it slide over his face, his chest, his belly, his cock, then back up again, and he groans, hands twisting in the sheets.

“What do you want?” Jim asks, and the tone of his voice belies his alpha male tactics. He's still uncertain, like he can't quite believe this is really happening, like he thinks Blair's going to disappear right out from under him.

“Anything,” Blair gasps, “anything,” and Jim nods and his hands leave Blair's body as he leans sideways. Blair turns his head to see him rummaging in a drawer, and watches as Jim pulls a tube and a condom packet out of it.

Oh. Okay. Blair thinks about telling Jim he's never actually gotten that far with another guy, but thinks better of it because it'll make Jim stop, and Blair doesn't want to stop. If Jim wants to take this final step, Blair's up for it.

Jim rips the condom packet between his teeth, then takes hold of Blair's cock and begins to roll the condom slowly down the length. Blair lifts his head, astonished. “You – ” he begins, then feels the world tilt sideways. Holy shit, Jim wants –

“Yeah,” Jim says, slicking the condom up with quick, brisk efficiency, his own cock so hard with anticipation it's practically lying flat against his belly. The second he finishes his task, he's bracing himself on his knees, and without preamble starts to lower himself onto Blair's cock. Blair feels the first snug pressure of Jim's ass against the head, and reaches down to spread Jim's cheeks, easing the way as best he can.

Jim hisses air between his teeth as he takes Blair inside, and Blair watches him anxiously for any signs of pain. His Sentinel senses have got to be on fire right now, and he opens his mouth to advise Jim to dial it down, but before he can he sees the lines in Jim's forehead ease and realizes he's done just that. In the meantime, he's about three seconds from going off like a teenager, so he practices a little mind control of his own, closing his eyes and concentrating on taking the edge off. When he opens them again, he sees Jim looking down at him with an expression that's half fondness and half exasperation. “What?”

“Nothing, Sandburg,” Jim says, smirking, “just wondering if you were paying attention.”

“I'm paying attention,” Blair shoots back, the effect kind of ruined by the way his voice cracks in the middle, “just wondering when you're going to get this show on the road.”

Heat flares in Jim's gaze then, so intense that Blair almost comes just from that, and then he's lifting up, thigh muscles bunching under Blair's hands right before he slams down again. Blair makes a noise that's really, really undignified for a human, and then Jim's rising and falling, fucking himself on Blair, and the sight and the sound and God, the _feel _of him sends Blair over the edge in an embarrassingly short time. Right before everything turns gray he reaches blindly for Jim's own cock and lets Jim rut into his fist until he comes with a roar, body clenching around Blair's cock in a powerful, ancient rhythm.

As much a neat freak as ever, Jim grabs for some Kleenex and wipes them both down, then settles Blair against him in a possessive embrace that Blair doesn't mind one bit. And it's then that he realizes that he's not his mother after all, because this, lying here cocooned by a sleepy, satisfied, happy Jim, doesn't feel like a prison cell or an outdated illusion. It feels like the only place Blair wants to be.

He never had a chance, and he's okay with that.  


    
    
    
 

  
Epilogue

  
__

_Six Years Later _

  
By the time their latest investigation wraps – a case involving a ring of slimeballs that sells drugs to kids on the Southtown playgrounds – they're beyond ready for a little R&amp;R. Jim suggests a camping trip to the mountains, but Blair points out their last three weekends off involved camping.

“I worry that our relationship will grow stale,” Blair says, deadpan, and Jim resists the urge to whack him upside the head.

“Then what do you propose, my beloved Creamsicle?” Jim shoots back.

Blair holds it in until his cheeks bulge like Dizzy, and then he bursts out laughing. “Funny you should put it exactly that way,” he says when he can gather breath, and Jim's stomach plummets for his shoes.

Less than twenty-four hours later they're standing in a small chapel on Vancouver Island while they exchange vows. Blair, as it turns out, had this planned for months, but was waiting for the right moment.

“So why now?” Jim asks later, when they're stretched out on a soft as sin king-sized bed in a luxurious cabin with a sweeping view of the Pacific. Over the years he's gotten a lot more comfortable with asking questions like that; it helps that he's got Blair's body under his hands as they lie on their sides trading lazy, unhurried caresses.

“I don't know,” Blair answers, leaning in to kiss along Jim's collarbone. “Maybe it was finding those gray hairs a few weeks ago. Maybe it was those great pancakes you cooked Sunday.”

“Sandburg, I'm always cooking you those damned pancakes.”

“Yeah,” Blair says, starting on his neck. “Maybe that's why.”

“Blair,” Jim growls. Blair nips his jaw before drawing back.

“Maybe it was time to show you I was committed,” Blair murmurs, not quite looking at him.

Jim sucks in a breath, startled. Reaching out to cup Blair's cheek, he rasps, “Did I ever make you think I needed that?”

“No,” Blair says, wrapping his hand around Jim's and squeezing it tightly. “But the ceremonies that mark our passage through life, our connections to one another – they're important. It's something I always knew as an anthropologist but never really put into practice in my own life. I wanted us to have that ceremony.”

Jim can't help snorting at that. “Once we cross back over the border, that ceremony is meaningless.”

“It means something to us,” Blair says fiercely. “That's all that matters.”

Jim looks down at their entwined hands, at the wide Haida silver rings they bought in Nanaimo, Blair's engraved with the thunderbird and his with the killer whale, and smiles. “Yeah, I guess you're right,” he says softly. His gaze rises to the man he swore a few hours ago to love, honor and cherish, and his smile widens to a no-doubt goofy grin.

“Holy shit, Sandburg, we just got _married_,” he says, laughing.

“Here's to the honeymoon,” Blair says heartily, rolling Jim onto his back and kissing him as close to senseless as he'll ever get.

  
__

_    
    
    
 _

_Eighteen Years Ago _

  
Blair didn't get a bar mitzvah; mom hadn't practiced in years, and the family she was close to had pretty much gone the same way. What he got was a rite of passage of a kind, but one bearing the stamp of Naomi's unique spirit.

They hitchhiked to Mexico and made it to Teotihuacàn just as the dawn light was hitting the steps of the pyramid. As they climbed, the light followed them, almost seeming to bear them aloft, until they were looking out over the valley, life stretching around them on all sides.

Blair's breath caught in his throat; he wanted to thank her, but for once he didn't have the words, and she didn't seem to need them. He felt her hand grip his strongly, and in that moment they were the two musketeers again; no matter where the future would take them, Blair suspected they always would be to some extent. His mother had her flaws, but she had given him gifts few other children received of their mothers, and he would always be grateful that he was the one consequence she decided to take on.

Later, they roamed through the city, Naomi allowing Blair to take the lead. He found himself reaching out to touch one of the painted murals, the stone warm under his fingertips.

“This is your destiny, sweetie,” Naomi said softly. “This is it, isn't it?”

Blair's fingertip outlined the figure of the jaguar, felt the history and the power in it, and for the first time he felt as though he had something he could hold in his hands, something that was his and his alone.

Something that would last him a lifetime.

“Yeah,” he answered, smiling. “Yeah, this is it.”

**Author's Note:**

> First published December 2006.


End file.
